Smile from a Lonely Soldier
by de-anon
Summary: "What kind of intruder came over solely to mess up his kitchen?"  GerIta Fluff. Oneshot.


**The last de-anon that I will be doing from the past few months. This fic originally was themed after "making tsunderes smile" as the prompt suggested, but I won't be uploading the other two parts (The USUK and RomanoxBTT). I don't know. I just wasn't crazy about how those two parts turned out, honestly. That and...they just have a different feel than this part and I don't really want to juxtapose them.**

**Perhaps they'll make their way onto my dA or tumblr at some point if I ever decide to massively overhaul them.**

**But yes, have some GerIta. Wanted to keep it relatively simple and close to the prompt. I actually tried to amp up my descriptions a bit for the purposes of this piece, as that's something I've always needed to work on. I figure that writing fanfiction doesn't excuse me from trying to improve from piece to piece.**

**And oh dear, I'm prattling again.**

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><p>Ludwig was the type who threw himself into his work, hunched over a desk (until a manual instructed him in proper computer ergonomics and he forced his back straight) with large, clumsy hands crammed together on a keyboard, competing for space as fingers hammered out German characters into document after document.<p>

Any speck of dust, any scrap of paper on his otherwise immaculate desk seemed to him like great noise taunting him from the corner of his eye. There were times when he had to stand back up five minutes into his work and wipe down the polished wood with a rag then move on to straighten the books on the shelves lining the tiny study. If the order of the height seemed off he would rearrange them as well, but this would always conflict with his need for alphabetical order and he'd take them all down and rearrange them again.

Sometimes Ludwig swore if he had a blindfold on he'd get more done, and indeed there was a lot to do. Transcripts from meetings, proposals for economic policy, the state of Germany as a whole—anything his boss needed him to do—and he readily complied, because it was his duty as a nation. It normally wasn't until two or three in the morning, when dull blue eyes drooped and blond hair fell out of rank, that he'd stumble off to bed. He'd wake the next morning more tired than the prior to restart the process. It was in these lonely hours that the nagging reminder that he was intended for something greater barraged his brain. He'd sometimes spend a few minutes remembering his days as a soldier—the marching, the barked orders, the beer in bars in towns they'd occupied. Such thoughts were terribly inefficient, so they did not last long, though the sadness nearly always lingered much longer, even if he wasn't always proud of his past.

This particular day, Ludwig sat in his usual chair and scrawled corrections on his drafts in tiny, precise script. He had just pulled his computer back towards him, eyes already watering in protest at the bright screen, when he heard a door open and shut somewhere in the front of his house.

The German merely sighed and shoved himself upright and padded from his office. He searched the living room, a terribly efficiently clean room built around a fireplace, then the front foyer and even his bedrooms. Nothing—not so much as a pillow out of place. He heaved another sigh as he rubbed his temples. Surely his mind wasn't playing tricks on him.

Another sound—the clanging of pots and pans and a cabinet being swung shut. Keen ears caught the telltale sounds of his fridge being raided and a burner being clicked on. By the time he reached the door to the kitchen, he heard water drumming into a pot from his sink.

What kind of intruder came over solely to mess up his kitchen?

Without bothering to be stealthy, Ludwig shoved open the door to his kitchen, rewarded by a sudden yelp when he grabbed the intruder from behind and bodily removed him from the crime against his stove. Too late—red tomato sauce glopped down onto his burner with a hiss.

The German's voice bellowed out more loudly than the intruder's protests. "What are you doing in my kitch—" He noticed the curl bobbing up and down and finally recognized the shrill voice. "Feliciano?" He released the flailing, screaming Italian. "What are you doing in my house…? In Germany?"

Staggering a few steps backward, Feliciano merely grinned up at his annoyed friend and shrugged, gesturing to the flour-streaked pasta noodles that he'd been trying to lay out in a pan. "Making pasta. Well, it's more of a casserole type thing, but it's got the noodles and the tomato sauce so I figured I could call it that even though it's going to be amazing and different from the pasta I've made you in the past because I found this really good romano cheese—hahaha, it's named after my brother even though he claims he hates cheese—and I was just hoping that I cou—"

Ludwig found himself rubbing at his temples as the Italian jabbered away in his heavily accented English. "O-okay, that's enough." That did nothing to halt the word vomit. Several tortuous moments ticked by. "SILENCE."

Finally Feli clamped his mouth shut and stared up at the towering German.

"Okay. Good." Ludwig allowed himself a sigh. He pinched at the bridge of his nose in hopes of staving off the inevitable headache. "I see that you're making pasta, er, or whatever you said it was. What I wanted to know is why you felt the need to come all the way to Germany to make it. Italy would seem the better choice. Moreover, you interrupted me in the middle of a finance report and I doubt I can regain my train of thought so easily."

Feli crossed his arms, for a moment almost resembling his older, irritable brother. "That's the point! You seem to work so hard all the time and whenever I see you at the world meetings you have these terrible bags under your eyes and you're a lot thinner even if you're still scary and muscular and I thought I should come over and make you pasta because you probably don't get enough to eat."

"O-oh, right. Then carry on, I guess." Ludwig could not deny the colour rising to his cheeks or the flustered uneasiness he felt when he became too aware of his heart beating. How had Italy picked up on his loneliness so easily?

"Hooray! I was hoping I could make you smile in all this too because laughter is good for the heart and you always have such a serious look on your face."

"Don't push your luck." But still, he lowered himself into one of wooden chairs around his simple wooden table and watched Feli work—to make sure he didn't make too big of a mess, he told himself. He would have to spare a few minutes humoring the Italian anyway-whether he liked it or not.

The Italian just seemed happy enough to be there, and he threw himself back into his work without a second thought. He'd just begun to layer the flat strips of noodles with sauce and cheese when his hair fell into his eyes. He wiped it away, streaking sauce across his face. He glanced over at Germany who, instead of wincing at the obvious mess Feli was making of both himself and the kitchen, hastily turned his face lest the Italian saw the smile twitching at his lips.


End file.
